


The Many Definitions of Destiny

by closette



Category: DCU
Genre: Angst, Brief mention of an attempted rape, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Bruce Wayne Whump, But only a little, Clark Is Trying His Best, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mind the Tags, Pining, Soulmates, rated for themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:40:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24683233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/closette/pseuds/closette
Summary: The universe’s timing is the worst. Bruce and Clark meet each other, and it wasn’t the blissful beginning of forever that the legends say it would be.It’s full of subterfuge, heartbreak, and blood.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent/Lois Lane
Comments: 39
Kudos: 116





	1. Clark

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Three Marks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2259114) by [sanam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanam/pseuds/sanam). 



He flies downwards to the rooftop in a blur too fast to be registered by casual observers, but holds back the burst of speed at the last second to set his feet softly on the concrete floor. He shakes himself to dislodge the last of the ash clinging to him stubbornly despite the impossible speed he’s been flying.

In another impossible blur he slips off the spandex, stashes it behind loose bricks on the wall and slips on a ratty sweater that’s two sizes larger than him and a pair of equally ill-fitting Levi’s. He ruffles his hair, makes sure to smooth out the distinct cowlick. He slouches and slips on a pair of glasses, the low light of the sunset catching on the cheap, plastic frame.

It’s not the most foolproof of systems, but it’s worked all these years against all odds, so what’s the point of changing?

He waits until the staircase and the hallway leading to his apartment is clear before going down, feels the tension drain out of him with every step towards his door.

Everything he needs is right there, standing by the stove and stirring dinner over a low flame.

“Hey honey. How’d it go?”

He wraps his arms around her waist and rests his chin on her shoulder.

“Saved kids from a burning orphanage, put out the fire, got some hugs and took some pictures with firefighters.”

“God, can you be more of a cliché?” She mocks, but he knows. He knows she’s proud of him. He hugs her closer and takes a deep breath.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“Yes it is.” She replies with a peck on the cheek. “Cooked your favorite because either way the fire went you deserve a treat.”

He spins her around and kisses her, deep and lingering and infinitely grateful for the gift of her here in his home. She wraps her arms around his neck and presses them closer, slings a leg around his thigh to ground her into him.

The beef bourguignon burns. Lois is exasperated – “Do you know how long it took to slow cook the meat?” and Clark replies “It was a two person activity, Lois, why am I the only one being blamed here?” and in the end they leave the apartment to get takeout from their favourite Indian restaurant, a hand in a pocket against the chilly night air and holding hands in the other, keeping each other warm as they walk.

***

They wake up in the morning and kiss each other in greeting. A shower, then their usual breakfast of toast and coffee. Even after two years of living together Lois never lets a morning go by without a jab at his baggy suits and his ties with the corniest of patterns (“Only _you_ can make _you_ look so dorky, Clark. It’s magic at this point, I swear.”) and they head to the office.

It’s a beautiful day in Metropolis, the love of his life is only a few cubicles away and always pats his shoulder on her way to the restroom or to the copier.

Clark is happy.


	2. Bruce

A shrill scream rings through the night, then abruptly cut off. Muffled, by the sound of it. A dark shadow stalks the sound along equally dark alleyways, sticking close to unlit walls and hidden shortcuts, steps fast and light.

Where the street light is broken, behind a dumpster, a figure is crouched over a body, attempting to pin her arms above her head and wrestle her clothing off. Without warning the shadow leaps forward, grabs the man, and flings him off, uncaring of how or where he lands. There's satisfying crash against the dumpster, and the smell of stale beer permeates as he arcs through the air is nauseating.

The shadow, broken by white slits where eyes should be, kneels beside the woman and does not touch her. She looks barely in her twenties; her face is streaked with tears and a bruise is darkening one side of her face.

“Are you alright?” He asks in his deepest tenor.

The woman gapes at him, momentarily startled from her distress. “Y-yes. You came just in time." Her lips quiver as she blinks at him, trying to clear her eyes of tears. "I can’t believe you’re real.”

He grabs a purse that’s been flung to the side and hands it over to her. “Go to the nearest police station and lead them here.”

She grabs the purse like a lifeline, holds it close as if to ground her in the present, still gaping.

“Go!”

She scrambles to her feet and is about to turn the corner, but she looks back, says with tears and a trembling voice.

“Thank you, Batman.”

He says nothing, and she runs off.

He approaches the man to secure him for the police. As he nears the prone body, it jerks upward without warning and slices through the air with a small knife. Bruce manages to jerk away, but the sharp knife catches on his leg, and the bastard manages to take a bit of skin off. Bruce crouches down to avoid the arm, and in as single motion swings upward to punch his head off is neck. A dull crack and another thud against the dumpster disturbs the night.

A two-bit drunkard got the best of him. This was not his night.

*******

He winces as Alfred wraps the gauze around his leg with very little care for his comfort. He’s normally beyond feeling pain from a few necessary stitches, but tonight, Alfred’s not very subtle with his disapproval.

“I beg you to be more careful, Master Bruce. You’re becoming more reckless by the day.”

A shrug. What is there to say? It's just another night in Gotham.

“This isn’t the worse injury I’ve had.”

He sees Alfred press his lips together. They’ve had variations of this conversation over the past two years, some of them even devolving to shouting, and he thinks that sometimes Alfred wishes he still has the power to banish Bruce to his room because he’s been troublesome.

Now, there's nothing but weary resignation.

Bruce truly hates doing this to him, but at the same time, he doesn’t know how to stop. Leave something alone long enough and it crystallizes, it sticks to the earth and the walls as if it’s been there all along, blending seamlessly into the background until you forget what the landscape looked liked before.

“One day the odds will be stacked against you, and since you seem to care so little for your well being, I fear that you won’t even bother to fight.”

“You know I don’t put myself in danger on purpose. I do whatever it takes to make sure I finish the job.”

“But you don’t go out of your way to avoid it.”

He’s now annoyed, a rare feeling when it comes to his friend and butler. “Alfred, I need you to trust me. Despite what you think, I don’t have a death wish.”

“You don’t, but you don’t care if you come home more battered than yesterday.”

He has no reply to that, because he can’t see the point. The physical injury he sustains is better than agonizing afterwards if he could have done more.

“It would break my heart if you come home broken beyond what we can fix. Isn’t that enough of an incentive to be more careful?”

“Of course it is, old friend. I’m here now, isn’t it enough?”

Alfred stares at him with sadness. Bruce hates it, but what else can he do? There is only the Mission, and he’s collateral.

“It is, and my wish above anything is that you continue being here, and that you are happy while you are.”

Bruce has nothing to say that his friend would like to hear. He doesn’t relish hurting Alfred any more than he should. So he stays quiet.

***

The glass case near the stairs houses a bright red shirt framed by a green cape, a grim reminder of what happens when he lets his guard down. Whatever Alfred says to him now is less powerful than the sight of that glass case, visible from all angles in the cave.

It’s good to be reminded once in a while. Alfred doesn’t understand at all.


	3. Clark

“I’m home.”

“Hey honey, how was ladies night?” He replies without looking up from his book.

“Hey old man. How’s the tea and the book?” She teases as she slips off her heels. Clark pointedly takes a sip of his ginger tea. “You’ll never guess what happened.”

Clark finally looks up from his book at the excitement in her voice. Lois’ eyes are practically shining with the need to share particularly juicy gossip. “What’s up? You look excited.”

“We’ve been invited to a soulmate ceremony!”

At that, Clark puts his book down to give Lois his full attention. “Really? Who?”

“It’s Pam! Can you believe it?”

“Seriously? Ms. Pam ‘It’s An Industrial Wedding Complex’ Grant?” Clark replies with a snort. “Oh the irony. Where did they meet? Who’s the guy?”

“It gets even wilder!” Lois replies, practically jumping in place in excitement. “It’s Daniel Remmington! Isn’t that unbelievable? They met through an interview.”

His eyes widen at that. "Seriously? A tech millionaire? Way to go Pam."

"I know! She bagged a future billionaire just like that!" She says, snapping her finger. "Oh Clark, don't pout. I'm still the luckiest lady in that bar."

She sends him a flying kiss, and Clark is mollified.

“Did she show you her marks? Were they as brutal as people say they are?”

“Yeah she showed us the marks.” Lois replies with a bit of awe. He understands the awe. In a world of seven billion people, the permutations are mind-boggling, and two people meeting in the very specific way they need to meet were almost a statistical impossibility. Soulmates are the stuff of legends, and in his almost three decades in this earth Clark has never even met anyone who’s met anyone that’s met their soulmate. “And no, she says those stories were exaggerated. The pain was like, an injection? And by the time you wipe away a bit of blood, the marks are already completely healed.”

“Oof, that sounds painful. What did they look like?”

“Like all other soulmates. A small brown circle on the wrist, small blue waves on the chest. What are the odds right? Though I’m sure someone somewhere already computed it.” She rummages through the refrigerator. “Did you order food? I’m starving. We didn’t eat much at the bar.”

“There’s some Chinese takeaway in the table.” He says. “When’s the ceremony? I’m excited to see Pam now, I mean, I’ve never met anyone who had a soulmate before.”

“I interviewed one for a feature last year. It’s interesting, hearing how they meet.”

As Lois heats up the orange chicken in the microwave, a tentative thought worms it way into Clark’s head. “Have you ever thought about it? What would happen if you met your soulmate now?”

“Hmm, I guess everyone has thought about it, especially when we were young, but I can honestly say it never even occurred to me the past few years. Are you fishing for compliments?” She asks with a smile at Clark, and he smiles back. “How about you? Have you ever thought about your soulmate?”

“I have.” He says. There’s a world of hidden emotions in that reply, but he’s over those now. He lets Lois see some of what he’s felt all those years ago, young and feeling alien in the rural, farm town of Smallville. “I’ve always thought that I’m exempted from the magic of it. For example, even if I did meet them, will the marks even register on my skin? It’s impenetrable.”

“Well, it’s magic. Who knows how it works?”

“I’m not even from this planet. Whatever magic works for soulmates may not even recognize me as part of this world.” He tries to say nonchalantly. As much as it doesn’t matter now, in the present, he can still remember agonizing over it for a long time, up until the moment it stopped mattering.

“Hey, stop that.” She holds his head between her hands, keeps him steady. In so many ways, she keeps him steady. “You live here and you’ve bled for us here. You’re more human than most of the people in this world.”

Clark pecks her on the lips. “If I met my soulmate I doubt it'll change anything. A slash on the wrist and the heart, wipe off the blood, come to an agreement with the person, then I’ll come home.”

She looks him in the eyes, smiling all the while. “I doubt it will be that simple, but I’m flattered.”

“I can’t imagine being any happier than this.” He says baldly.

“You are such a sap, but ugh, I love it. Come here.”


	4. Bruce

Alfred finishes listing Bruce’s appointments for the week. He listens intently through his pull-ups, comments once in a while if input is needed.

_Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three..._

“And for Friday evening, you’ve been invited to a soulmate ceremony, Sir.”

He pauses in his pull-ups at that. Interesting. He’s never met anyone who has a soulmate before. “Oh? Whose?”

“A Mister Daniel Remmington and a Miss Pamela Grant.”

He continues his pull-ups. Remmington, founder and CEO of what is now a search engine that’s the nearest anyone has ever come to rival Google. After a breakthrough in machine learning and a promptly issued patent to protect the invention, he’s now a rising juggernaut in the business of the internet. The woman though, he’s never heard of her.

_Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three..._

“It would be very beneficial to attend in person; Mr. Remmington would be a good acquaintance to have, if Wayne Industries is to start a venture capital company for technology startups. He can advise you as an insider, and you can be partners in some ventures.”

_Fifty._ He lets go of the pull-up bar to wipe off and hydrate, and grunts his agreement.

“Who’s my date?”

“I advise you to come alone; a date to a soulmate ceremony would lead to inevitable questions about marriage and commitment in general. I can’t, in good conscience, send with you a young starlet who will surely get their hopes up.”

“How is that my fault.”

“You don’t necessarily go out of your way to discourage them now, do you?”

Bruce shrugs and climbs on the treadmill.

“Sir you’ve already gone through your exercise routine for the day.”

“I’m not needed at the office today so might as well.”

Alfred is exasperated, he can see. “It’s a rare day where you have nothing urgent. You have an open invite visit Star City to, shall we say, ‘hang out’.”

“There’s no way Oliver wouldn’t be in the soulmate party, so I’ll see him them.”

For a few seconds, only the thuds of his sneakers against the plastic surface of the treadmill disturbs the silence of the cave. Even with the subtle dismissal, Alfred still hasn’t left Bruce, and he’s dreading what he’s about to say.

“You can always visit Bludhaven.”

“No, Alfred. This is not open for discussion.”

His oldest friend takes a deep breath, but even for him, Bruce will not discuss it.

“Master Bruce -”

Upon hearing that tone of voice, Bruce sets the treadmill to a more punishing speed, the faster steps and thuds deterring Alfred from poking into the rawest and deepest of his wounds. He sees the man rub his temple in a rare display of irritation, but his shoulders droop imperceptibly, and then finally leave.

He thinks of nothing; he sinks into the feeling of running endlessly until he can’t run anymore.


	5. Clark

On Friday evening they arrive at the Continental.

A red carpet has been laid down from the drop off all the way to the entrance. Cameras and hordes of fans are lined up along the sides, cordoned-off against the attendees emerging from luxurious black cars. Flashes go off continuously and hanger-ons allowed on the property scream with every celebrity reveal.

Remmington, completely besotted and indulgent towards Pam, has rented the same luxury cars for Pam’s friends and family. As one of Pam’s best friends, Lois has been given access to a limousine. And Clark, as boyfriend to the best friend, is along for the ride as arm candy.

Well, he thinks a bit sadly, as much as Clark Kent _can_ be arm candy.

Not even for Lois can he risk looking polished because someone somewhere will surely be reminded of Superman while looking at a well dressed, well groomed Clark Kent.

“Are you still grumpy that you can’t dress up?” Lois says. “Come on, Clark. Does it really matter? I think you’re a stud.”

“Well, I’d feel a lot better if people stop looking at the both of us so rudely. I can see in their eyes that they think you’re out of my league. You are, don’t get me wrong, but I think in looks I can still compare.”

He can _almost_ feel the imperceptible reaction from their driver, but to be fair, he tries to keep it to himself. Super-senses were needed to even get a hint of the chuckle that the driver has suppressed in his throat. Still, the thought rankles.

She kisses him on the cheek. “You’re being dumb. Now let’s get this over with.”

They disembark and a few cameras flash, in recognition of Lois probably, and they pose for a bit. Then the cameras completely ignore the both of them in exchange for actual celebrities.

They head to the hotel foyer to grab flutes of champagne from the many, many waiters zipping through the crowd, and Clark whistles appreciatively at the sight. The Continental’s lobby and main ground ballroom has been closed off and decorated with what feels like thousands of fairy lights against a dark blue, all encompassing canopy. It’s a beautiful imitation of a night sky,

“This is the engagement announcement party? Goddamn.” Lois remarks.

They were looking around for Pam and Remmington when a blonde man saunters towards them, clearly at ease with all the excess. “Lois! You are a vision, as always.”

He leans for a polite greeting and Lois presses her cheek against his, taking care to kiss only the air. “Oliver Queen, of course you’re here.”

“You know wherever there’s a party, you’ll find me.” He smiles at her, tilts his head and focuses on her face as if she’s the most fascinating thing in the room. It annoys Clark. “Fancy a drink by the bar? To catch up. I’ve never stopped following you ever since the piece you did on one of my subsidiaries. You’ve been busy being brilliant to follow up on more of me.” He ends with a mock pout.

“You know I’m as surprised as anyone to know that there’s nothing to dig up on you, so good job Oliver. I’m going to pass on the drink, I need to say ‘hi’ to the bride-to-be before we completely lose track of each other.” Lois replies graciously, but there’s a sparkle in her eyes.

“I’ll catch you afterwards then, I’ll wait for you as long as you want.”

“I wouldn’t want to waste your time. Besides, if I need anything from the bar Clark can get it for me.” She replies sweetly. “Clark, this is Oliver Queen, President of Queen Industries. Oliver, this is Clark Kent. We both work in the Daily Planet.”

Oliver turns from flirtatious to coolly assessing, and offers is hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Clark.”

Clark makes sure to grip the hand extra hard, and sees an eyebrow quirk in surprise. “You as well, Oliver. I’ve heard Queen Industries does good things for Star City.”

The man laughs and backs off with good nature. “Good to know; wouldn’t want to be exposed by Lois Lane now, would we? I’ll leave you to enjoy your evening. I can see Brucie from here and you know someone needs to look after him. See you around, Lois.”

He saunters off, and Clark grumbles under his breath. “See what I mean?”

Lois laughs and squeezes his hand in assurance. “They don’t know what they’re missing. On the upside I get to keep you all to myself.”

***

“Lois! God, I could kiss you, thanks for coming to this ridiculous thing.” Pam says under her breath as she hugs Lois tightly. Without further ado she drags her away towards the ladies room. “Come with me for a bit. Sorry Clark! I need you to fend for yourself.”

Lois looks back helplessly at Clark, and he waves her away with a grin. No doubt Pam needs a friend to freak out with in this fancy party. Not really their scene, to be honest. They’re usually in bars where there’s a discount on beer if you buy a platter of nachos.

He wanders about, impressed at the roster of VIPs casually mingling about with Pam’s awestruck friends and family. Along with Metropolis elite, Star City’s Oliver Queen and Gotham’s Bruce Wayne are in attendance. Are billionaires a close knit circle? They're both a long way from home.

No one would outwardly be nasty to the friends of Remmington’s soulmate, but Clark doesn’t doubt that some of the people here resent mingling with members of the unwashed masses. He keeps an eye out for their mutual friends anyway, in case someone’s ego got too big and said something awful.

Still, he was a decent journalist, with decent by-lines under his belt. He’s also paramour to an award-winning journalist, and that must mean something to these people.

It’s honestly an out of body experience sometimes, being Superman and Clark Kent. If anyone is keeping score he doesn’t have anything to prove, but at the same time, he’s being judged and found wanting.

Oliver Queen is in his periphery, gesturing at him and probably talking him down to his companion. He frowns at the man for flirting with Lois in front of him earlier, sending a reminder that he hasn’t forgotten the audacity. Carelessly, without thought, just an idle action in what’s turning out to be a dull evening, his gaze slides over to the man standing beside him.

So that's Bruce Wayne.

Their eyes meet, and everything goes to hell.


	6. Bruce

“So the girl’s totally ordinary? This soulmate thing is fascinating.”

Bruce smiles rather vacantly at an acquaintance before replying in a low murmur. “I didn’t know you were a classist, Oliver.”

Oliver raises his hands in defense. “Hey now! Who said I meant ordinary as an insult? I just mean that the girl doesn’t run in our circles. You have to wonder what the magic meant to do, bringing two completely different people together.”

Bruce catches the vultures in his periphery, waiting for a chink in their body language to insert themselves as politely as possible and make small talk with two bachelor industrialists. Only someone more powerful than either of them can approach without introduction; no one’s at their level in this side of the room, at least.

Which is why he and Oliver are stuck together; his goal here is to make Daniel Remmington's acquaintance, and all these other people are just delays.

“I heard Daniel’s a decent man. Actually inspects his factories himself to check for poor working conditions, makes sure the screening of his supply chains is strict. Some say naively strict. Maybe his soulmate can keep him that way.” says Bruce.

“Is that why you’re here then? For Remmington? I know you were a courtesy invite.” The infuriating man replies with a smugness that annoys Bruce.

“Of course you do. You could’ve introduced us, you know.”

“Now now, Bruce. I know we’re friends and all, but I still have to protect my own interests. I needed to put myself forth as a partner before you.”

Bruce is amused despite himself. Oliver will always be blunt, and he’ll always be disarmingly charming while he’s at it. The qualities needed to be friends with Bruce Wayne. “Any idea who the girl is?” He says instead. No need to reveal his business plans to a potential rival.

“As per Daniel, she’s a journo for the The Daily Planet in Metropolis. That’s how they met; she was interviewing him for an article. Which is why this place is crawling with journalists.”

“I like that paper. They’re better than the other sensationalists being printed.”

“Even if Cat Grant’s linked you to all the shockingly young debutantes in the tri-state area?”

“She’s helping me maintain my image, if nothing else.”

Oliver laughs at that.”I honestly can’t imagine you flirting with anyone younger than you. I doubt you have the patience for them, but needs must, _Brucie._ ” Bruce snorts at the nickname. “Lois Lane’s here too. Tried hitting on her, but she’s apparently with somebody. Even introduced me to him, the cheeky girl. Still though, I can’t believe she passed over all this.” He gestures to himself mockingly.

“She writes excellent pieces. I’m honestly surprised no one’s taken her out yet.” Bruce muses idly.

“Speaking of the devil, the boyfriend is over there glaring at me.”

“He has balls, I’ll give him that. Where is he?”

“That guy with the baggy suit, Clark Kent.”

Despite himself, Bruce is intrigued. What kind of man can compete with Oliver Queen when he’s determined to flirt? He looks over to where his friend is gesturing, and notices the terribly ill-fitting suit on a large man with poor posture.

_Him?_ Bruce catches himself thinking, not liking the condescension that colors the thought. He really can be an ass sometimes.

Their eyes meet and then, blood.


	7. Bruce, Clark

Bruce feels the simultaneous slash of the marks, and to his infinite relief his body knows how to take pain, to feel and acknowledge the invasion but to not let his mind dwell on the sensation after impact. He brings up memories of the monks he met, of feet running through hot coal, of men burning themselves alive in protest, and his face betrays no emotion.

He can’t afford to let people know that excruciating pain is concentrated in several parts of his body, that slices have been made against his flesh by a steady hand and a razor sharp knife.

Because the knowledge that comes with that fact will be Bruce’s downfall. It’s too powerful to handover to anyone, and he’s going to use every trick he has to make sure that no one suspects anything’s out of the ordinary.

Kent, on the other hand, shouts and doubles over in pain, all the while clutching his wrist to his chest.

The people in their periphery are about to descend at Kent’s distress; he puts a hand against Oliver’s shoulder and squeezes, hoping the man understood without further explanation and rushes over. He immediately drops to one knee, adjusting his tie on the way down to hide the stark red line that the mark has made against his white shirt.

“Hey now, what happened?” He dips his head and stares unblinking into Kent, all the while pitching his voice into flustered Brucie, hoping that Kent understands what he’s trying to do. “Goodness, did the champagne not agree with you? Let’s get you sorted out.”

The pupils that stare back at him are blown wide with shock, but surprisingly, Kent doesn’t say a word. He simply nods and curls into himself more.

Good. He’s not as clueless as he looks then.

Bruce grabs at a shoulder with fingers that have gone cold and clammy. His extremities feel oddly numb.

People have started to gather around, offering platitudes of concern over this random reporter that Brucie has shown interest in, but only a few look like they’re about to take actual action. He squeezes Kent’s shoulder with no little force, pulling him up to stand. “It’s alright everyone, I got him.”

They shuffle towards the exit, and Kent seems willing enough to be led without protest. Bruce presses his hand against the dark stain on the man’s chest, prattling loudly about heartburn and pacing yourself when drinking expensive alcohol. He leads them to the men’s toilet.

Once inside, Kent seems to have calmed down significantly. He straightens himself to stand, stance combative and looking ready for a fight. As he opens his mouth Bruce shakes his head, a finger to his lips.

He opens all the stalls inside the room to check if they’re empty. He then grabs a card from his jacket pocket and picks the utility closet’s lock, rummaging through the supplies until he finds the ‘Closed for Maintenance’ sign. He props the sign outside, and locks the door.

He stands still for a while, gathering himself before he faces Kent, finally. And for the first time throughout this evening, for the first time in a long, long while, he has absolutely no idea what to do next.

***

The silence stretches and stretches while Clark stares at the man that has done extraordinary things in the span of seconds, covering both their asses while he was nothing but a dead weight being dragged towards the men’s room. If it wasn’t for Wayne’s quick thinking, news outlets and bullpens around the world would have been feasting on what happened tonight. It would have been a media circus of epic proportions.

But he has no time to think about the what-ifs. They have to deal with the present, and he has no idea where to even begin this conversation. His thoughts are messy and jumbled; so many questions fighting for dominance.

How Brucie Wayne is, apparently, not the idiot his reputation lends him. The farthest thing from an idiot a person can be.

How he can apparently endure sudden and excruciating pain as if it’s nothing.

How he can pick locks off any random door.

All these and more are racing through his head, his heart beating faster and faster and faster as he decides where to begin, and when the silence becomes unbearable all he could think of to say finally is:

“Who are you really?”

Wayne looks at him, expression blank and refusing to give Clark a hint of what he’s feeling underneath.

“Your soulmate, it seems.” Wayne replies.

Upon hearing Wayne acknowledge the matter so very calmly, as if it’s just another fact, Clark feels weirdly weak in the knees and out of breath.

All at once it feels real. As if the marks that are, even then, throbbing with pain at each of his heartbeats, weren’t proof enough.

He opens his mouth, but finds that he has no idea what to say next. He is struck dumb.

Wayne leads, again.

“We can’t talk about this here. I’m going back to the party and mingle for a half an hour while you leave; that way it won’t look like we left together.”

Clark, in better circumstances, would chafe at being ordered around, but right now, he’s too off balance to even think straight.

“Where should I go?”

The man pulls out a phone and starts texting. “Take a cab back to the Daily Planet; a car will be waiting for you at the lowest parking level. It will take you to my house. We’ll talk there, where I’m sure it’s secure.”

Normally he would balk at the idea of following a practical stranger without question. But nothing can ever be his version of normal ever again.

He tries to suss out from Wayne’s expression if he’s lying in any way, but even as he thinks the question, there’s a surety in his mind - his heart? - that Wayne isn’t lying.

That’s going to be useful , Clark thinks. Hysteria threatens to bubble upwards from the tangle of emotions in his chest, and all he can do is nod mutely.

“I’ll sneak out to the taxi bay then.”

Wayne nods in reply. “I’ll be at the house in an hour.”

They look at each other a beat more before Wayne leaves to execute the plan. Clark checks himself in the mirror, splashes his face and fixes his hair to get rid of the sweaty and crazed look he sees in his reflection.

He doesn’t dare to check his scars, not yet.

It’s only when he’s sitting in the cab that he realizes, with horror, that he hasn’t thought about Lois the whole evening, not even once.

***

Bruce feels as if he’s giving the performance of a lifetime. Feigning interest in these people and acting a ditzy fool when all he can think of is the man being driven to his house, and how his life is completely upturned in a single second by a single person.

Again. The universe is cruel tonight.

Now that he’s calmed down somewhat, he notices a low level ache in his chest that’s growing incrementally by the minute. Thinking back, it started the moment Clark left the city limits, and has started growing in intensity with every kilometer he’s further away.

Bruce is beyond pissed that this part of the soulmate theory is true. He executes the part of the script that will allow him to exit without suspicion and waits for his driver to take him to Wayne Manor. He can’t breathe easily. He excuses himself and waits for his driver to take him to Wayne Manor.


	8. Clark

Clark takes the elevator to the basement parking. It was difficult hiding his bloody shirt from the few stragglers still in the office late Friday night, but he manages. There’s also an ignorable but persistent ache in his chest that’s grown a bit more intense the moment he stepped out of the Continental and he’s dismayed that this part of the stories is true.

He’s been bombarded by sensory input continuously; the last time he felt this ragged was at least a decade ago, before he came into his powers, and he was baseline human. It’s making his sense of unreality about the whole evening even worse.

He forgot to ask what car model or license plate he should be looking for, but he didn’t need to worry. A brief honk from a black Rolls Royce catches his attention. He opens the door at the back and sees an impeccably dressed man in the driver’s seat.

“Good evening, Master Kent.”

British, by the sound of it. Clark spares an amused thought at the cliché - of course a billionaire industrialist will have an English chauffeur, of course he will. He almost smiles, but the gravity of the situation weighs on him again. His soulmate is a _billionaire industrialist_ , good lord.

“Hello.” He replies with a wobble, voice weak from being quiet for a long while now. He coughs and tries again. “Thank you for coming to my rescue, Mister -?”

The man smiles at him. “Alfred Pennyworth, but call me Alfred, please. Master Bruce has given me a - summary of the situation.” He takes something from the bottom of the passenger seat. “That crusty shirt must be getting uncomfortable, and it’s a long drive to Wayne Manor. Here are wet wipes and a fresh shirt that hopefully fits, if you prefer to change. I keep these in the car for Master Bruce in case of emergencies. Do you need to get anything else on the way?”

He shakes his head and accepts them with a grateful smile.

The long stretch of Metropolis highways takes them out of the city, and with miles of travel ahead he has no excuse to put it off any longer.

He doesn’t know what to say: can’t think of a good reason why he abruptly disappeared for who knows how long it takes to sort this out. This is assuming that they can even come to some sort of agreement. What are they even going to talk about once they get to the Manor? Is there even anything to talk about?

But one thing’s for sure; as much as he desperately wants to just ignore it and go on as he is, the ache in his chest makes it unlikely that he’ll be able to.

What can he say to Lois that she won’t look up on the internet, that will assure her he’s okay and she shouldn’t look for him tonight?

Of course his phone rings. He’s terrified of answering, because he’s not sure how his voice will sound, so he lets the phone ring like a coward. The call eventually stops and then, a text message.

_ >> Hey honey, I heard you were sick. How is that even possible? Are you alright?_

_ >> I can’t find you, where did you go?_

He takes a deep breath.

_ << Hey sorry, I wasn’t able to answer. :( Don’t worry! Something unbelievable happened._

_ << I’ve been invited by Bruce Wayne to his house to discuss some intel he has. The heartburn was just cover; will tell you the details when we’re done but I’m really fine :)_

There. That will buy time to think about what to say. A sudden wave of desperation crashes over him, a feeling that everything is going to shift after this night, as much as he’ll try his best for things to stay the same.

_ << Love you, I’ll see you soon_

_ >> Love you too. Let me know if there’s a problem okay?_

_ >> I will_

Clark stares at his reply and hopes he didn’t lie.

***

Iron-wrought gates open automatically as the car approaches, and the car rolls up a ridiculously long driveway to the front door of a mid-century mansion - the imposing brick walls and facade competing with glass and modern industrial touches along the windows and balconies. The contrast blends seamlessly. Clark gets out of the car and takes a moment to admire the notoriously private home. He doubts many strangers to the family has seen the manor this close.

He knows the Waynes are very old money, and he’s surprised that the family home isn’t more medieval to reflect that history. Then again, the image he had of Brucie Wayne’s home isn’t this mix of history and modernity. Just the shiny modernity for a shiny playboy.

“This way, Master Kent.” Alfred says, and Clark blushes.

“Please, call me Clark.”

The man simply smiles at him at the statement, and he’s oddly comforted.

He’s led into the study, and if he only knew Bruce Wayne from what he sees in the news, this was not how he imagined the man’s study would look like. Instead of showy and sleek and empty, the walls are covered in imposing bookshelves made of burnished oak, the wood dark and a bit faded from age, and books fill most of the room’s space. The odd painting here and there of what may be a relative breaks the view of seemingly endless books. All the furniture in the room is made of dark wood; even the large table by the window that must serve as Bruce’s home office looks as large and sturdy as the Resolute desk in the Oval Office.

Though it may not fit _Brucie_ , it fits the man back in the Continental's comfort room perfectly. He looks like a man in charge of something _consequential_.

But what really pulls focus the moment you are inside is the enormous painting above the fireplace. Framed in the same burnished oak, it was a portrait of three people. A handsome man, a beautiful, smiling woman, and a dark haired, blue-eyed child.

The Waynes. Clark feels like he’s intruding on something incredibly personal and avoids looking at the painting again.

“Please, have a seat.”

Clark sinks down on a plush armchair near the fire, and the part of his mind that never stops cataloguing his surroundings was amazed he was somewhere so incredibly private, when the person who owns it is so public.

In the quiet of the study he notices the compression in his chest start to ease, and he understands. While his lungs ease, his veins fill with adrenaline instead. The front door opens and closes, and footsteps muffled by rich carpeting approaches.

“I’ll go and fetch you some refreshment.” Alfred says with a very small bow, and turns to leave. Clark has barely finished nodding in reply when Bruce Wayne walks into the study.

***

For the first few seconds, they simply stare at each other. Clark is bewildered and scared to realize that against all logic and reason, he instantly feels calm now that he can see Bruce. The jackhammering his heart was doing before out of sheer nerves is gone, and if happiness is the absence of fear and pain then he might even say he’s kind of happy now that Bruce is here. There is a lightness in his chest where there was only panic just moments before.

The reactions his body is having feels so natural, but so _involuntary_ , that he panics again. Everything feels so out of control; his body, his life, every single hour of this evening he’s been swept along the current, and the calm dissipates.

“What are we going to do?"

Bruce is impassive, the same way he was in the Continental while Clark was less than useless.

“I think it’s best if we state the facts for now. You and I are undeniably soulmates." He says without preamble. Soulmates. "We have the correct marks, and acquired them in the correct, painful way. We experience discomfort when we are far from each other, and our discomfort is reduced when we are in each other’s vicinity. You felt that when I came in, and I felt it when I saw you.”

He looks at Clark, and Clark nods, even though it wasn’t a question.

“I am unattached. Except for Alfred and my son, whose story you know so the mother is not an issue, I have no immediate family. But you are not unattached.”

This is it. The truth that’s permeating the air, making it heavy and hard to breathe. The reason why this moment is filled with panic and adrenaline rather than brightness and clarity.

No, he’s not unattached. There are many reasons that are of equal importance fighting for dominance in his mind: the fact that he’s Superman, the last of his kind from a far-off planet that no longer exists. The fact that the Bruce Wayne the world is familiar with seems to be nothing more than an illusion. The fact that secrets seem to ooze out of every single corner of this house, that there's a depth that he can’t see through as he looks at the man in front of him.

“I have Lois.” Clark says through numb lips. Only that. It’s the only thing he can think about, despite everything. “She doesn’t deserve this.”

Bruce turns to stare at the fire. Clark wonders what’s going through his head; he can’t read the man, more so now that he can only see his back, shadowy and silhouetted against the light. They are silent again.

“I understand. But you have to realize this is beyond the both of us.” All of a sudden, he is pacing across the length of the study. 

“I traveled to many obscure places during my absence from Gotham, and in some of the places I went, deep within temples hidden in mountain ranges, there are people who mastered magic. I can contact them and learn if there’s a way to break this.”

There’s a twinge in his chest at the thought, but what’s there to do but ignore it?

Bruce stops his pacing, and looks at Clark squarely in the face. “I’m going to be honest with you, Kent. It’s obvious that this is not welcome news to you. But even with all my resources, I don’t think this is something we can easily break.” He opens his shirt to display the blue waves in his chest, and holds his wrist to eye level.

“Do you know what these symbols are? Do you know why it’s blue waves and a brown circle?

Clark shakes his head. When he was young, he never really spent as much time as some of his friends on the thought of soulmates, even though all teenagers dreamed of finding one. Teenagers are obsessed at the idea of a soulmate. But he always believed that you need to be from this world to experience the magic, and it was too painful to dwell on never experiencing that. The idea that he was really, truly alien, that even his soul doesn't belong here.

Then he met Lois, and it stopped mattering.

“People think that it's illogical; if people are soulmates, shouldn’t the marks be something that’s unique to them? A unique symbol to identify a pair?”

Bruce buttons up his shirt and lowers down his sleeve. Despite himself, Clark feels the twinge again. He hates the feeling.

“No, these symbols mean the water and the earth. They are fundamental and unchanging. They are the actual elements by which this world and all life were built from. People change multiple times in a lifetime, do you really believe a single symbol can encompass all that they end up becoming throughout decades?”

He paces as he continues his lecture. He looks calm on the outside, but Clark feels an impression of agitation that’s different from the simmering anxiety he’s been feeling. Another involuntary emotion, so he focuses on the man in front of him.

“A pair of people are identified by the magic as soulmates, and we go through life without knowing each other. If we meet, we identify each other through a connection. As the magic dictated, it’s with eyes, so that we can see each other clearly. Then pain, to make sure it’s unmistakable. Then we are marked by symbols of the elements fundamental to life.”

He was quiet, his chest rising and falling. This is the most emotion Clark has seen Bruce express. His impression of Bruce has evolved; he’s an eerily calm and efficient man. Now, there’s an undercurrent of emotion that he’s seeing and feeling all at the same time. An intense and roiling swell of agitation.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

Bruce pauses in his pacing. Clark wishes that he can see his face right now, just to put an expression on the swell of dark emotion.

“I don’t want you to get your hopes up. It’s doubtful we’ll finding something that can break magic tied to something so very… fundamental.”

He finally faces Clark, face still impassive, but the heavy feeling in his chest still hasn’t dissipated. Clark is dismayed that Bruce is hiding whatever he’s feeling.

But there’s no easy way to resolve this, is there? From the beginning of this messed up night, it’s unlikely that he and Bruce will just jump into each other’s arms and go off into the sunset together. He has so many people and secrets to protect. The life he has built is centered on protecting those secrets. Is he expected to upend everything precious to him for someone he doesn't even know? He can only strive to make the eventual disappointment easier for this man.

“I’ll still send a message to my contacts, if there’s something they can do. But it’s more likely that we need to make the best of all… this.” Bruce says.

“You know a lot about this stuff.”

“There was a time I researched this in depth.” He replies with no emotion to his voice.

Clark can’t stop it anymore; he walks closer to Bruce and squeezes his shoulder. His only consolation is that the man doesn’t flinch away. 

“I know this isn’t the way you imagine meeting your soulmate. God, if this was anyone else it would break my heart that this happened to them. But.“ He takes a breath, feels mortified and confused and altogether incredibly cruel. The amalgam of emotions makes it hard to think of the right words to say.

“But you have to understand, I. I have Lois.” He says, halting. ”I love her. I’ve loved her for a long time, and we’re very happy together.”

He meant to gush over her, tell Bruce how much she means to him, explain why hurting her is the last thing he wants to do. But through some miracle of intuition, he realizes just in time that going on about how wonderful Lois is might be the worst thing he could say to this particular person. Apparently he's not completely tactless, and he's furious with himself for being so careless.

“I have no idea how to be as fair to you as possible. You deserve more than this messed up meeting.”

“I understand.”

“But if you ever need a helping hand, or a-a friend, I'm going to be here. It’s the least I could do for you.”

The man is quiet after that. If not for the ache in his chest he’d think Bruce was just thinking about what to say next. But the agitation that's not his is still nestled in his lungs. “We still need to discuss the logistics of this. We can’t be apart more than 10 miles without feeling physical discomfort. The farther and longer we are apart, the more we can’t ignore the discomfort.”

Bruce steps away from his hold, and Clark refuses to examine how that makes him feel. “Let’s meet again some other time to create a better plan. We need to make agreements so that we can live our lives as free of interference as possible, and for that we need to rest. At the very least, tonight we know what we want to get out of all… this.”

“Bruce.” Clark wants to hold him, inexplicably. The heavy emotion is still churning in his chest, and there’s nothing he can do about it. “I’m sorry.”

He waves him away. “I’ll send you the details. Take care, Clark.” Without another word he leaves the study.

Just like that, they part ways.

“A car will take you home, sir. Just tell the driver the address. Good evening.” Alfred says, and Clark jumps at the suddenness of his arrival. He is standing by the door and is looking just a bit off to Clark’s side. He can’t blame him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been reviewing notes from a writing workshop I attended last year, and a sentence I wrote down is 'You should write what you want to say, as you want to say it. Everything else will follow.' It's kinda vague but I get what past me wanted to say. So I hope that I'm conveying the complex emotions I want to convey with this work!


	9. Bruce

“I’m sorry, Bruce.” Alfred says softly with a touch on his shoulder.

“Don’t, Alfred. Nothing has changed. I’ll go on as before with a bit of chest discomfort.”

His oldest friend doesn’t say anything after that. They stand by the fireplace, Bruce focused on the crackling logs, Alfred contemplating the family portrait above. 

“Well, I’ll just think of it as you having asthma again.”

He can’t help it; he chuckles, and Alfred smiles at him. Bruce grasps the hand on his shoulder, grateful for the comfort, even if they’re never going to speak of this again.

***

He’s struggling to sleep when, unsurprisingly, Oliver calls. The last hour of the party was a blur, but he vaguely remembers Oliver helping him make plausible excuses as he leaves, sticking close so that no one comes near enough to see his chest or wrist.

_“Did what I think happened really happen?”_ The tinny voice on the phone says without much ado.

“Yes.” He replies, feeling exhausted all of a sudden.

_“Shit.”_ Bruce braces for the next question. _“Is he there?”_

“No.” He says. “He went home.”

_“God, Bruce. I’m sorry.”_

“You’ve no idea how many times I heard ‘I’m sorry’ this evening, so I’d rather you stop.”

_“Well I’m sorry for caring, you jackass.”_ Was Oliver’s sarcastic reply, and Bruce feels grateful for the people in his life, few as they are. _“I’m open for a drink any day you want. I’m even available for beating up blind idiots, if you’d like.”_

Maybe it’s the upheaval of the evening that’s left him more frayed than usual. Maybe it’s the constant barrage of unpleasant emotions, but his guards were weaker than they have been in years. Maybe even _he’s_ tired of thinking and thinking. Whatever the reason, he feels unusually honest at this moment.

“He made his choices clear and explained why. There’s no villain here, Oliver. It’s just…”

_“Complicated.”_

“Yes. Very. But right now, it’s simple. At the end of the day, he still has a choice, and he chooses to continue his life as is. All of this, the marks, the whole situation, it’s just a suggestion.”

_“It’s not just a suggestion.”_ Oliver replies with a vehemence that amuses Bruce. He’s always suspected that Oliver was a closet romantic. _“You and I know that it’s supposed to be destiny. You deserve better than this, this hesitation, as if he’s not the luckiest bastard in the planet.”_

“Do I?”

_“Yes you do, despite what you believe.”_ There they go, skirting around another one of Bruce’s wounds. But this is no wound. It’s like a whole amputated limb. It cripples him, lingers with phantom pain when he’s reminded of it after all these years.

_“Sorry, didn’t mean to bring it up.”_

“What did I tell you about the constant apology.”

_“I’m sorry I’m such a considerate person!”_ Oliver replies with exasperation. _“Just, call when you’re up for that drink, alright?”_

“I will.” He replies, hoping that the gratitude in his voice is obvious. His friend has years of practice reading him anyway. “Thanks for tonight. I trust you’re going to keep quiet about it?”

Oliver scoffs and hangs up.

For the whole conversation he was able to forget the compression that’s been humming in his chest, ignore the impression of guilt that’s been hovering in his mind that he’s sure is not his. It doesn’t feel like it now, but maybe he can survive the consequences of this night, carve out an existence where his supposed soulmate doesn’t need to be a significant factor. He’s not alone, and no matter how hard he tried for the past few years to get them to leave him alone he has people that stuck by his side. 

He sleeps.

***

His whole morning has been spent refreshing what he knew about the soulmate bond. Because of its rarity there are only around a thousand soulmate pairs in recorded history. This is already assuming there are even more pairs that eluded detection and study, or pairs that refused to be studied altogether. In medieval times and earlier, the marks were thought to be the Devil’s Mark, the pair assumed to acquire powers that no normal, god-fearing human would have and will be a danger to the community. Soulmates were then burned as witches accordingly; it's no wonder some of them may have hidden before.

He can’t find any accounts about a pair where one of them is already committed and refused the other. By all records, all the unions have been perfectly matched. That would make sense; maybe in a reality where magic doesn’t exist it’s possible, but in this reality the universe is rarely so lazy as to make undesirable soulmate pairs. Even the cases where one person is younger than the other, the age gap isn’t so large that it would be unpalatable to the society they lived in.

There was a handful where one died before the other, and it looks like the one left behind followed out of heartbreak rather than a physical compulsion to kill themselves. That’s a relief, at least.

The other ‘symptoms’ seem to align from what he’s experienced so far: a noticeable chest compression that isn’t debilitating if the pair isn’t within a few miles of each other’s vicinity. Impressions of what the other is feeling that may be stronger the longer they know each other, since familiarity brings certainty to the interpretation of feelings. There’s evidence that they can feel the other’s physical pain - a signal that the other is hurt and needs help, but the strength of feeling also depends on familiarity and how the other person processes pain in the first place.

He suddenly considers how Clark expects to hide his soulmate marks from the girlfriend for the rest of their lives, but that’s not his problem now, is it? He may actually be feeling petty about this. Who knew he had it in him.

Through the distress of the night he realizes neither he nor Alfred, nor Clark for that matter, thought to exchange any type of contact information. He looks up Clark Kent’s contact details from the Daily Planet website to set the dreaded meeting.

Subject: friday evening  
From: cheesefries2045@jetmail.com.fm  
To: sendtips_clarkkent@thedailyplanet.com  
———  
Hey Mr. Kent, I have more details on that story I was telling you. Send me a number so we can meet.

A phone number is eventually received, and a time and place is set. Bruce futilely squashes the part of him that’s looking forward to seeing Clark, and focuses instead on the closure that the meeting will bring.

***

He sits in a small diner on the border between Metropolis and Gotham. He pulls his beanie over his head and makes sure to slouch further into scarf and parka. He signals the waitress with a smile, gesturing to his coffee mug for a refill.

Clark Kent is already 5 minutes late. He can’t believe his soulmate is not punctual.

A text message comes in.

_ >> im so so sorry ive been sent to cover a hostage situation at the central bank not sure how long ill be out but will be available this evening if your still free will msg once done_

His soulmate also bails on appointments, and Bruce is irritated. He runs a multinational conglomerate on top of his vigilante activities, for god’s sake. His schedule can’t be changed around on a whim.

The waitress arrives with a pot of coffee. “Here you go honey. Shame about that robbery at the bank, huh?”

“There was a robbery?” Bruce replies, schooling his face into a surprised expression.

“Yeah, but no need to worry. Superman already arrived to handle it.” She replies with a smile and a thumb to the TV by the counter.

He thanks her for the refill and watches the screen. Superman, with his red cape and blue spandex, swoops in one minute and flies out with hostage takers already tied up in the next. The police and civilians in the periphery cheer, and the news chyron reports that no casualties or injuries reported. Clark must be in the vicinity, because he feels an impression of joy mixed with nervousness.

He’s relieved at that, despite everything. Ever since he’s heard of the super powered meta-human that seems to be unstoppable in Metropolis he's been ambiguous about Superman's existence, but the fact that he’s there and keeping deaths and injuries at a zero is welcome right now.

_ >> Hostage situation was resolved quickly. On my way now, if you’re still there?_

_ << Still here, I’ll wait._

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL NOTE: This is a chapter off a long fic that I can no longer finish (the flow of the plot became wonky + writer’s block); I liked this chapter a lot though! This is inspired by the universe in Three Marks, a fic that fascinated me while lurking in the sterek tag.
> 
> UPDATE: This is now a story! True to form it's still ongoing, but would love to get your feedback as I go along. I thought that during quarantine I'll be able to write more, but the anxiety isn't letting me? 
> 
> This is loosely based on various canon. Loooosely. Anyway enjoy!


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